


Slytherin House and the Anti-Magic Conspiracy

by generalzero



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dudley's kid, Gen, Muggles, Next-Gen, OCs - Freeform, they're all so cute
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 17:09:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4530222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/generalzero/pseuds/generalzero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A muggle, a Dursely, a Death Eater's son, a Weasely, a Potter. A lot can change in nineteen years, and new problems threaten the wizarding world. Will the newest members of Slytherin House rise to the challenge?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Number 4 Privet Drive

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! Enjoy and please review. See my profile for my policy on updates.
> 
> Rating: K for all ages. Mild language. There will be nothing here you didn't find in Sorcerer's Stone. I understand "bloody" is more offensive to the British. Advice on incorporating that correctly into my rating is welcome.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

Privet Drive had seen better days. There was nothing particularly run-down about the little street—in fact, all of the homes had remodeled, resold, or rebuilt in the newest architectural fashions of the millennium, albeit in a sort of slapdash scraping-the-barrel fashion. The street that had once been a pinnacle of suburban respectability and elegant stagnation was no longer elegant or respectable, just stagnant. There remained only a single reminder of the street's heyday: the missing house between Number Two and Number Six Privet Drive. A bureaucratic blip, the streets' inhabitants would say. There had never been a Number Four Privet Drive.

This fact had always troubled Mrs. Number Seven greatly. She was a pedantic old hen who had moved into the neighborhood because her check had been reduced and Number Seven was cheap, neat and quiet. She would not have moved into the neighborhood if she had known that there was a missing number on the street. It was an inexcusable oversight. Almost as atrocious as the number of strangers who found their way onto the isolated suburban lane.

Most of the time Mrs. Number Seven would attempt to ignore the missing house, but the strangers caught her fascination. She spent hours at her window, tracking every pedestrian who walked by with utmost suspicion. It was her favorite occupation, but a fruitless one.

If Mrs. Number Seven had been looking out her window one night late in August, she would have been rewarded stupendously for her patience. At just about midnight, a black sedan purred past the stop sign at the end of the street and parked illegally just behind a flashy new notice board installed for community benefit by the Neighborhood Enlightenment Committee. Mrs. Number Seven, had she been awake and not dozing over a pink romance novel, would have commented on what an eyesore the useless contraption was. The large sign obscured most of the car and all of the man who got out of it.

In a moment, however, the man came walking down Privet Drive, with that peculiar, uncomfortable walk of someone who can't decide whether he wants to sneak or strut and is a little embarrassed to do either. Mrs. Number Seven would have remarked that it was a politician's walk. He had a slim briefcase in his hand, and looked very out of place on the darkened street. He walked along the sidewalk to Number Two Privet Drive and—just before he reached the edge of Number Four's lawn—he stopped, looking around furtively. His face was briefly visible in the moonlight street, and even from her window Mrs. Number Seven would have been able to recognize his face. She had seen him alternately reviled and praised on the telly for the past eight years. What the prime minister could possibly be doing on this street was impossible to guess—and would likely remain impossible, for a moment later he completely vanished.

* * *

Dudley Dursley furtively pulled a key out of his pocket and inserted it in the lock. There was a hissing sound and he swore softly. As he returned the key to whence it came, grimacing at its magically melted surface, he grumbled inaudibly: "Blast it—wizards—the whole lot of them—dragging me out here—midnight—locked out of my own home—if anyone from the Times heard…"

Dudley swiveled his head sharply, looking out for eavesdroppers. The wizards had assured him that no one could see him once he crossed the lawn, but he still felt exposed. It was strange coming back here after so many years, strange finding out his childhood home had been turned into some sort of wizarding safe house, strange being summoned to this clandestine meeting when the liaison wizards had no problem barging into his office through the blasted fireplace any time they wanted.

Shrugging off his nervousness, Dudley thumbed the doorbell with a grimace of distaste. After a moment the door opened a crack—the chain was still drawn—and a voice issued from the blackness within.

"Why should you never eat strange candy?" asked the unseen person inside.

Dudley threw up his hands. This was ridiculous. "Honestly, you know it's me already, don't you? All that mumbo-jumbo mind reading business…"

When a reply was not forthcoming, Dudley sighed, thrust his hands in his pockets and gazed at the sky. It may be true that no one could hear him, but the question was still exceedingly embarrassing one. Finally, he answered: "Fine. I shouldn't eat candy because your stupid in-laws will inevitably have poisoned it. Can I come in now? It's blasted awkward standing out here like some sort of burglar."

The door closed, the scraping of the chain was heard, and it opened to reveal a handsome man in his late thirties, with rather untidy hair. His green eyes twinkled in the darkness with something close to a light of their own. The man grinned.

"Worried about the Times again, cousin? I've read some of that Montevo woman's articles; she's worse than Rita Skeeta."

Dudley glared at his cousin. He did not want to hear anything at all about Mariafe Montevo and he certainly didn't care who Rita Skeeta was. He was also not in the mood for Harry's effusive greetings. Just because they were family, just because Dudley had allowed his son to meet his freakish uncle, did not mean he wanted to be included in every Potter family birthday and anniversary (and good God, there were plenty of them!). But Harry refused to stop treating him as if they were brothers—the next thing out of his mouth would be an invitation, Dudley was sure of it.

"Isn't it your wife's birthday soon?" Harry asked. "Perhaps we could throw a little something for her—strictly muggle-friendly, of course..."

Bingo. Dudley shook his head, cutting off his cousin sharply. "I thought this was a business call."

Harry sobered a little. "Yeah… Come inside."

Harry stepped to the side and let Dudley pass by him into the foyer. Dudley's eyes strayed to Harry's cupboard, locked tight and untouched for more than twenty years. The sight reminded him of a drawer in his own home, locked equally tight and holding similar secrets. Harry caught him staring and they both looked away, hurrying into the kitchen.

Dudley walked past Harry, heading straight for the refrigerator. He wondered if the wizards kept any food in this house; he found himself craving something to occupy his fingers and his mind. Eating was and always had been Dudley's go-to distraction. The fridge was empty, however, and he closed it wearily.

"Try again," said Harry.

Dudley glanced at him and was shocked to see his cousin's wand out, pointed directly at him. He leapt out of the way. "Bloody hell!"

Dudley had made it to the dining room door, headed for the back way, hoping that no magic would hit him in the back as he ran, when he felt Harry's arms wrap around one of his own.

"Dudley, stop!"

Dudley did not stop. He staggered into the dining room, dragging his slim cousin with him. Two years of police training had left Dudley resembling a bull rather than an elephant, and Harry had never quite regained the weight loss his stunted youth had cost him. It was absurd for Harry to try to use physical force on Dudley. That was what wands were for, wasn't it? Beating bigger opponents?

"I wasn't pointing at—Dudley, stop!"

Dudley stopped. He'd been stupid, overreacted. Harry wasn't going to hurt him. Harry had no reason, no motive for attacking him. He hadn't used his wand when Dudley tried to run, even though he could have easily stopped him with it. He sighed. This wouldn't have happened in parliament, wouldn't have happened at all if he weren't so preoccupied and antsy around magic.

Harry let go of him, panting. "I thought you were going to drag me out the door for a moment there."

"Thanks," Dudley grumbled.

"For what?"

"Not magicking me. When I ran."

Harry smiled. "Thank you, for putting up with all this. I know you don't like magic, and you already have to deal with it at work… It's really decent of you."

Dudley trudged back to the kitchen and collapsed into a chair. His own, he noticed, from so many years ago. Here was the scratch from his UltraMan action figure. He peeled his eyes from the table and watched Harry cross to the fridge. To his astonishment, the younger man was greeted by a display of food when he opened it.

"Ah, excellent. Ginny made lasagna," Harry said. He turned to Dudley. "I conjured the contents of my fridge to this one. I'll put it back, and she won't notice a little gone."

"You lot must be awful absent-minded if your wife doesn't notice the lasagna missing. Mine always does."

"Actually, Ginny always does, too." His cousin shared a sheepish smile with him, and then put the lasagna on the counter. Harry started to bring out his wand, thought better of it, and put the whole container in the microwave. The outdated model's hum was unnaturally loud in the abandoned house.

Dudley pulled his mind back to business. "Why are we here? Why not my office? Or your house?"

Harry sat down. "Because I can't leave this house. I'm watching someone—she's upstairs sleeping—and I couldn't bring her with me. We can't figure out what to do with her, and I thought you might be able to help."

Dudley thought that this was less than illuminating, but mentally began preparing a list of strings he could pull to have someone guarded. He had a contact in the justice department… "Is she dangerous? A witness to something? A criminal? Our prisons are no more secure than yours; I've been over this with your brother-in-law."

"No, I don't need any of that. This isn't a job for Prime Minister Dursley. This is a job for Mr. and Mrs. Dudley Dursley." Harry got up and fetched the lasagna and two forks. He plopped it in between them on the table and continued. "We've been having trouble with this group trying to break the Statute of Secrecy—I'm sure Percy has briefed you about it before."

Dudley nodded, tasting the lasagna warily. Who knew what witches cooked with?

"Good," Harry said. "Recently they've been raiding government offices—the Daily Prophet and such—and we couldn't figure out how they weren't tripping the wards." Dudley raised an eyebrow and Harry quickly explained, "Tripping the alarms. We managed to track down one of their hideouts last month, and the raid didn't quite go as planned."

"Is the woman upstairs one of them?"

"No—no. She's a little girl." Here his cousin stopped, clearly upset. "Albus's age. We found her in the hideout, half-starved and obliviated—she'd had her memory wiped. We have no idea who she is, and neither does she."

What a terrible thing to do to a child. Dudley knew that terrible things happened to children in the real world—heck, he'd campaigned on gun safety and child protection reform—but these wizarding things… They were so unnatural, it was just worse. "What was she doing there?"

"We think they were using her to get past the wards." Harry frowned. "Look, it's complicated. Our research team only got a quick look at her; I didn't want them upsetting her more than necessary. It appears, however, that she's impervious to magic. No spells work on her, nothing."

It was Dudley's turn to frown. "I thought you said they took her memory with a spell?"

"Yeah. Like I said, complicated."

Dudley set down his fork tiredly. The lasagna was half gone; it was very good, whatever Harry's wife had put in it. Dudley ran his fingers through thinning hair. "Well, what do you want me to do with her? I can't put a witch in a normal person's house; I can't put any of my CPS workers on the case; I can't give her a protection detail if those wizards are going to come after her…"

"She's not a witch," his cousin said.

"Come again?"

Harry leaned over the kitchen table. "Dudley, she's a muggle child. No magical power at all, and no knowledge of the magical world. After all she's been through, I'd like to keep it that way. That's why I want you to take her. You and your wife, personally, until we find her family."

Dudley blinked. He didn't speak, didn't alter his expression. The reaction always gave him the appearance of being slow, but his professional associates—which nowadays, God help him, included Potter—had learned long ago that he was simply analyzing the situation. Not answering immediately was part of his political persona. Even the general public remarked on the prime minister's habit of staring blankly before coming up with a scintillating reply to a jab from a political rival, although Montevo claimed it was because someone was feeding him lines through a Bluetooth.

Dudley thought it over. The knowledge that the child was a normal person—one of his own people, the people he had sworn to protect—made the whole issue seem personal. He wanted to take the girl. Sighing, he looked at his cousin. "I can't."

"What? Dudley, you're perfect for it. You're already under twenty-four hour muggle and wizard surveillance. She'd be safe; you'd be safe. You even have a son her age. You could tell the press she's a visiting pen pal, or something. It would only be for a few months, Dudley. Please."

Dudley squirmed in his chair. His tongue was all tied. He'd wanted to tell Harry, but not this way. He wasn't ready. He didn't—oh bother, it was no use. The secret was bound to come out anyway; his desk drawer was nearly bursting.

"Vincent got a bloody letter."

Harry's face was blank for a moment until he caught up with the change in topic. Then he smiled broadly. "Why, that's great! I had no idea. You never told me he'd shown any magical talent. You must bring him over to see the family, properly this time. And he'll be in Albus's year at school. Oh, and don't worry about tuition or supplies—if this isn't a time for nepotism then I don't know what is. I'll get everything taken care…" Harry trailed off as he noticed the look on Dudley's face.

"I don't want him to go," Dudley said. It hurt to say it, especially since Harry reacted exactly as Dudley had predicted. His cousin completely deflated, his enthusiasm replaced with a touch of a certain look Dudley hadn't received from Harry in nineteen years. Dudley didn't hate his cousin, not anymore, and though his mother might turn in her grave to hear it, he didn't want to hurt him any more than he had. "It's not what you think. I don't—I don't hate wizards. Magic gives me the creeping willies—you know that—but I love my son, Harry. Believe me. I love Vincent, wizard or not. I'm not trying to ruin his life, or punish him, or punish you." Dudley sighed heavily. "I just—I just don't want him to get hurt."

To Dudley's relief, Harry seemed reassured. Unfortunately, it didn't look like he was going to let the matter drop.

"Dudley, you realize that if he doesn't get any training he won't be able to control his magic—and then he will get hurt. You can't repress magic. I couldn't; he won't be able to, either. Do you know that?"

Dudley knew that. He gone over it a thousand times in his head. He didn't know what to do about it. "Aren't there… private tutors or something? Anything but that school."

"What do you have against Hogwarts?"

Wasn't it obvious? Dudley knew wizards were a reckless lot, but Dudley was honestly surprised that Harry let his own children go there. "It's dangerous! Every summer, you came back and someone had tried to kill you and your mates. Giant snakes? Gladiator games? I don't even know half of it, I'm sure, since Mum and Dad always shut you up before you said too much. I won't put Vincent in danger. He can't go to that school."

For a moment, the old house was silent. Then Harry laughed. Really roared. "You think—you think he'll be in danger? Oh, Dudley. Dudley. I'm sorry. Just give me second."

Harry took off his glasses and forced down his giggles. Dudley watched the display impatiently. Crazy, his cousin was. Maybe a decent fellow, but still crazy. "Are you done?"

"I'm sorry, Dudley. It's just the last reason I ever expected to hear. Listen, my experience at Hogwarts was not typical. It was so far from typical I cannot begin to tell you. First of all, I was an idiot. It comes with the territory, being a Gryffindor, but there you go. Secondly, I was super famous. And most importantly, the most powerful dark wizard of all time was constantly trying to kill me. None of that stuff applies to Vincent, right?"

Dudley shook his head.

"Then I assure you, he will come home next summer and tell you fantastic things, but none of them will include 'Hey Dad, I almost died.' Hogwarts School is the safest place on in the country. I promise."

Dudley found the tension that had made its home in the back of his neck almost four months ago start to dissolve. He had been worrying for nothing. Smiling a little, he said, "Well, it'll be a relief to get all those damn letters out of my desk. I guess I'll have to have someone stop by and talk to Vince, and the misses." He glance at his cousin, whose expression clearly showed that he was dying to do it personally. "Would you—"

"Absolutely!"

"Good." Now back to the subject at hand. "Now you see why I can't take the girl. You wanted her with her own kind."

"Oh, she'll be gone by the time Vincent gets back next summer; you can tell her he went to a boarding school. It'll be no problem. Will you still take her? I know it'll be some work, since you have to get Vincent ready and everything, but I am dying to get home. The investigation is at a standstill as long as I'm stuck here watching her."

Dudley nodded. "Alright then. Now about all this rubbish in Vincent's letter—does he really have to wear a pointy hat? And what classes will he be taking? I didn't see anything about business, or maths, or social studies…"


	2. The Locked Drawer

Vincent knew all about the locked drawer in his father's office.

It had something to do with his cousins. He knew this because his father had expressed forbidden him from opening the drawer, even though it was locked and Vincent would never rifle through his father's things anyway. It just didn't make any sense for his father to draw his attention to a drawer he would otherwise have never noticed. Vincent knew his father was a smart man. His mother said it all the time, and so did his father's work-friends and the news-people on the telly. So, Vincent concluded, whatever was in the drawer was so interesting that it made his father temporarily not-smart. And there was only one thing that Vincent knew of which could be relied on to make his father lose his senses:

His cousins.

Strange lot, they were. Very  _interesting_. Every time Vincent had said as much, his father hurriedly hushed him and changed topic. So naturally Vincent was very interested in his cousins, and whatever was in that drawer.

The drawer had always been off limits, but lately Vincent could swear it had been calling to him. Every time he went near it he had to fight the inexplicable urge to wrench it open and devour all of its secrets. Once it had even rattled, he was sure of it. It was maddening, and Vincent could not stand it for one minute longer. So when his father announced one night at the dinner table that he was canceling his meeting with the Minister of Ecological Development to take a walk in Little Whinging—and the look his mother sent his father over the table was almost interesting enough to distract Vincent from the drawer, but not quite—Vincent decided that he would take a walk of his own, to his father's office.

Vincent knew exactly which of the polished wooden stairs creaked on the way up to his father's rooms; he avoided them all, and also the section of hallway that had been re-waxed this morning and would show footprints, and was pleasantly surprised to find the office door unlocked. He worried momentarily that he had mistakenly entered his parents' bedroom, but even in the dark of midnight he could recognize his father's office: the 48 inch flat screen, which connected wirelessly to the printer and his father's laptop, and half a dozen other wonderful gadgets, his framed police badge from before Vincent himself was born, and the all-important desk.

Vincent crept around the desk to face the drawer. It did not rattle this time, but Vincent knew that had to open it or he would just die from suspense. He put his fingers on the wood, brushing the lock gently. Where was the key? Vincent carefully opened all the other drawers in the desk, searching for the key. The lock was the old fashioned metal kind, not a card-swiper like on his locker at school, so he needed an actual metal key. None of the drawers held the key, however. His father must keep it somewhere else. The idea of searching the whole house before his father got home did not excite Vincent.

He wanted this so badly. It was crazy, even, how much he wanted to open this drawer. Right now, right here, in his pajamas, in the dark. He brushed his fingers against the lock. "I must be bonkers," he breathed aloud.

The drawer clicked.

Vincent froze. The strange tension he felt was gone, replaced by a sort of anxious thrill. It was the same feeling he'd had when that shooter had got in his old primary school last year. The man had come into all the classrooms, asking where the prime minister's son was. Vincent had been scared, frozen—but at the same time he felt a morbid curiosity. Would any of his school mates point him out? Would the man shoot them all anyway?

The man came into Vincent's classroom last. He asked where the prime minister's son was. None of the children moved, nobody spoke. Even the teacher was frozen in fear. The man became agitated; he looked ready to shoot someone. Vincent wondered if he should give himself up, maybe stop the shooter from killing anyone else, but he recoiled from that idea instantly. Pointing out someone else was no better, either. Where were the police? Where was his father? Wasn't anyone going to do something?

That was when Vincent had felt the thrill, when he realized that no one was going to do anything. Nobody but him.

"I know where he is," Vincent had said. The shooter had whirled on him instantly with the gun; several of the other children whimpered softly. Vincent felt like doing so himself, but he continued. "Dursley always skips second period. He's got a pack of cigarettes hidden in the janitor's closet."

It was the thrill that made him speak that day, and it was the same thrill that made him grasp the handle of the forbidden drawer and pull it open.

There were seven yellow envelopes inside, one of them wrapped in a slip of strangely thick paper. Underneath the envelopes were two manila envelopes and a flash drive. Vincent discarded these, drawn to the more exotic looking envelopes. He picked up the one attached to the slip of paper; the slip had a short note, written in messy ink, perhaps from a broken pen. It read:

_To: PM Dursley_

_Minerva McGonagall asked me to deliver this. You should be able to take care of the explanation yourself. Congratulations._

_Sincerely,_

_K. Shacklebolt_

Vincent had expected it to be a secret note from one of his cousins, but he had never heard of a Shacklebolt or McGonagall among them. Perhaps it was explained inside the envelope.

To Vincent's great surprise, however, the addressee on the envelope was  _him._  The address even included his bedroom. Why would his father hide a letter meant for him? Who might possibly be writing him? He couldn't take it in. The thrill urged him on; he turned the envelope over and found the seal already broken. Inside were 2 pieces of the same thick paper.

_HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY_

_Est. 920 AD_

_Headmistress: Minerva McGonagall_

_Dear Mr. Dursley:_

_It is my pleasure to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins September 1_ _st_ _. We await your owl by no later than July 31_ _st_ _._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Neville Longbottom_

_Deputy Headmaster_

Vincent threw the letter away in disgust. A hoax. Some fruit loop sending the prime minister's son phony mail. Magic wasn't real.

As he sat on the floor of his father's darkened office, gazing at the contents of the forbidden locked drawer, however, Vincent realized that the facts didn't quite add up that way. If it was junk mail, why would his father lock it up tightly in his desk? And the note attached? It was addressed to his father familiarly, as if by an associate. And who could know what bedroom he slept in? He picked up the letter again. The next page said:

_HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY_

_UNIFORM_

_First year students will require:_

_3 sets of plain work robes, black_

_1 plain pointed hat, black, for day wear_

_1 pair of protective gloves, dragon hide or similar_

_1 winter cloak, black with silver fastenings_

_*Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags.*_

_COURSE BOOKS_

_All students should have a copy of each of the following:_

_Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 by Miranda Goshawk_

_Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling_

_A History of Magic, 10_ _th_ _edition by Bathilda Bagshot_

_A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch_

_One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phylida Spore_

_Potions, Alchemy and Chemistry by Kelly Feisel_

_Seen and Unseen: A Guide to Magical Creatures By Rolf & Luna Scamander_

_Elementary Defense by Neville Longbottom_

_OTHER EQUIPMENT:_

_One wand_

_One cauldron (pewter) standard size 2_

_1 set glass or crystal vials_

_1 telescope_

_1 set brass scales_

_Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad._

_*Parents are reminded that first years are NOT allowed their own broomsticks.*_

It still didn't make any sense. Magic wasn't… real. Vincent couldn't seem to find a logical explanation, no matter how hard he thought. Everything always had a logical explanation—everything except this letter. Vincent looked at the other envelopes, hoping for more information, but each one was an exact copy of the last.

The sudden sound of the garage door opening wrenched Vincent's attention away from the letters. His father was home. Vincent was so dead. With frantic speed he pushed all the letters but one back into the drawer and closed it. He didn't know how to lock it again, but hopefully his father wouldn't—Vincent stopped. He turned slowly back towards the drawer, as if it might come to life and attack at a sudden movement. Then he looked at the lone letter in his hand. His mind was racing, but Vincent forced himself to slow down and follow the ideas logically.

The drawer had been locked the first time he'd tried it. Fact. The drawer was no longer locked, and Vincent hadn't used the key. Fact. Inside the drawer was a letter addressed very precisely him that claimed he was a wizard. Fact. He was the only person in the room when the drawer became suddenly unlocked. Fact.

Conclusion: Either he was crazy, or he was dreaming, or he was crazy  _and_ dreaming—or he had opened the drawer  _with magic._

His father's voice sounded from the landing. The floorboard by the linen closet creaked—his father was coming towards the office. Vincent was trapped. He looked around; he was too big to hide under the desk anymore, too big hide anywhere. There were no closets, no doors, no place to go. His father would be livid to find Vincent not only out of bed, but in his office and rifling through the forbidden drawer. The significance of that prohibition suddenly struck Vincent. What if his father suspected he was a wizard? Would he send Vincent away? Was he just waiting for proof? Was that why the drawer was locked?

His father was at the door, still murmuring aloud—and there was another voice, very familiar. Vincent closed his eyes as the knob began to turn…

It clicked. The door had locked itself. Or something. He heard his father speak, the surprise in his voice evident even though it was muffled. "Look what it did to the key!"

"Stand back," said the other voice, and Vincent could not place it in his anxiety. The knob made a hissing sound and the door burst open. Vincent saw something long and thin flash in his face and he shut his eyes tightly, positive that he was about to be shot. Visions of that terrifying moment in the janitor's closet in school last year filled his head.

"Good God, Vince!"

Vincent opened his eyes to see his father pushing past a man in a strange bathrobe, rushing to Vincent's side. The thing pointed at his face was not a gun but a stick, and the man pointing it—the man in the bathrobe—was none other than his father's cousin, Harry. Already he had pocketed the stick, concern splashed all over his face. Vincent's father was kneeling next to him, talking—but Vincent didn't hear him, didn't move. He was still remembering how it felt to have someone point a gun in his face, still trying to stop the pounding of his own heart.

"Vince, Vince! Are you okay?"

Vincent nodded.

"What are you doing in here? Why aren't you in bed?"

Vincent held out the letter, crumpled severely now from his clenched fist.

Silence reigned in his father's office. His cousin Harry returned to the door and flipped the lights on. "Well, so much for letting him down gently, eh Dudley?"

His father sighed. "Vince, why did you go in that drawer?"

Vincent scrunched his shoulders and hung his head. He couldn't stop his voice from whining a little as he replied. "I tried not to. I tried, but it was like I had to. I could stop myself."

"He's probably right. So many people are late with their replies that I wouldn't be surprised if the letters didn't have a mild compulsion charm," said his cousin from his perch on the edge of the desk.

"I'm sorry, Dad. I'm really really really sorry."

His father squeezed his shoulder. "It's okay. I shouldn't have hidden them this long. Did you read it?"

Vincent hesitated, wondering if he would be in less trouble if he said no. The envelope was already open, though. "Is it a joke?"

Harry snorted. "Like father, like son. A joke, honestly. And I suppose the door locked itself."

Vincent spared his cousin a glance, but his cousins were all crazy; he looked at his father. He didn't know what answer to hope for.

His father squeezed his shoulders, with both hands this time, and shook his head. "No, it's all real. Magic, wizards, Hogwash."

"Hogwarts," corrected Harry. Vincent's father gave him a sharp look, and Harry put up his hands. "Sorry. It's your son, you get to tell him. I'm just kind of strung out right now, and I really thought there was ambush in here. Nerves, you know. I'll go check on Miranda."

He left. Vincent looked apprehensively at his father. "What do you get to tell me?"

"Well, just that… Magic—you know. Um," his father sighed and didn't speak, blank-faced like when he was speaking about important things in Parliament. "Magic is real and there are wizards and witches living everywhere without any of us noticing them and they have a ministry with police and everything and that's where your cousin Harry works and I work with him and the magic minister occasionally and they have schools for magic and your cousins are all wizards and now you're one."

It didn't come out sounding fancy like his father's speeches usually did; his father looked very flustered. Vincent figured that he knew now why his cousins always made his father not-smart. They were wizards, and his father didn't like wizards. And now Vincent was a wizard.

"Are you going to send me away?" he asked.

"Send you—no! My God, no. What gave you that idea?"

"You didn't want me to look at the letter. You locked it up."

"And you walked right through that lock, didn't you?" said his father thoughtfully, as if to himself. "Vincent, I shouldn't have locked it up, but I was thinking about things first. You know I have to do that sometimes. I've told you before it's better to think things out before you go rushing into something. You're a good boy about doing so, too, very sharp. I didn't learn to think until I was much older than you are. And the letter—I just wanted to make sure this was a good thing for you to do. Do you understand?"

Vincent was torn. His father  _was_  going to send him away—to that school. He hadn't had time when reading the letter to wonder what it might be like there. In between not believing it and trying to hide, he hadn't thought about whether he wanted to be a wizard. He still didn't know if he did, but he did know that he didn't want to do anything his father didn't like.

"I don't want to go."

His father sighed again. "Vince, you have to go. This magic business, it's dangerous if you don't know how to use it. At that school they'll teach you how."

"I don't want to go."

"Why?"

Vincent shrugged.

"Vince, you have to go. You'll enjoy it, I promise you. You're cousins are going, too. You'll have friends, and you'll learn important things." His father gave him an encouraging smile. "You want to grow to be a successful man like me when you grow up, right?"

Vincent nodded. He wanted to be just like his father.

"Well, to be successful you have to take the opportunities life gives you. It has given you the opportunity to be a wizard. So I want you to go out there and be a great one. Do you hear?"

Vincent couldn't make sense of his swirling emotions. It had been a long night, and his whole world had been turned on its ear. He gave in, nodding.

"Good boy, Vince. You'll do fine."

Vincent felt his brain rapidly numbing now that he had made a decision. He tried vainly to shake off the weariness. He was eleven years old, for goodness sake; he could stay up as late as anybody else. He wasn't tired. There was something he wanted to ask, but the he couldn't hold the question in his mind.

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

"Do I really have to wear a pointy hat?"

* * *

_He's doing it again, Godric._

_Doing what, exactly?_

_Scheming._

_Isn't he always?_

_Just talk to him before he takes over the whole Sorting._

_Yes, yes, fine._

_Could you two refrain from talking about me as if I weren't here?_

_Well, if you and Rowena would get over this ridiculous grudge…_

_I'm not holding any grudge. I'm being perfectly reasonable._ She's  _the one—_

_Yes, I've heard it a thousand times. What is it this time, Salazar?_

_Nothing at all. I was simply considering a talk with the Hat. Completely innocent. Trying to even up the odds a little._

_Very little you do is innocent, my friend. When you even the odds, you end up stacking the deck. You know you can't manipulate the Sorting. It must be impartial._

_Impartial! Have you eyes in your head? Slytherin House is dying. I will not stay here and watch my house wither away into infamy, whatever you say about impartiality! This is an emergency._

_I'm sorry. The students must take the House they belong in, not the House that wants them._

_The House that_ needs _them, Godric! Slytherin House needs great wizards, wizards who can pull it out of its own shadow._

_A shadow that you welcomed, Salazar, if you remember._

_You need not remind me of that lapse in judgment. I have more than repaid it. Don't change the subject._

_The Sorting cannot be interfered with._

_It can, and it has. I let you have the Potter boy. He belonged to me. He was mine. You owe me. Or don't you remember that?_

_What is it you want?_

_I gave you the Potter boy. I want his son._

_Absolutely not._

_You owe me, Godric._

_It was different with Potter. He could have gone either way, you admitted it yourself. He wanted Gryffindor, and you didn't mind letting him go._

_Only because it was strategically prudent to do so._

_It's still different. You don't even know if his son has a drop of Slytherin in him. It'll set a bad precedent. Can't you see what will happen if the four of us start staking claims on children? We created the Hat for a reason._

_Everyone has Slytherin in them. Even you, Godric. You're ten times better at debate than when I first met you._

_But still ten times worse than you._

_Yes._

_You can't have Potter's son._

_I_ will _have him. Listen to you: Potter's son. That's all he'll ever be in Gryffindor. I could make him something else entirely._

_You're planning to interfere with more than the sorting, aren't you?_

_Perhaps… What is it? You've got that look, the one that means trouble._

_You can have Potter's son. On two conditions._

_Yes?_

_He has to pick Slytherin himself. You can talk to him, but you may only appeal to his Slytherin nature, if he has one. No seducing any Hufflepuff pity out of him with talk of the dying House of Slytherin, and so forth. He has to want it for Slytherin reasons._

_That's acceptable. Yes, that's very acceptable. And the second condition?_

_You have to lift the pureblood restriction from your House qualifications._

_You've been waiting nine hundred years to make me do that, haven't you?_

_How much do you want this boy?_

_It's sacrilege!_

_Your choice, Salazar. I trust you to make the right one. But you'll understand if I have Rowena watch the Hat until the Sorting._


	3. Diagon Alley

"Hey, you—you can't have ice cream in here. You'll have to take that outside."

Rose turned around, eyes wide. The proprietor of Flourish and Blotts was glaring at her from the Mediwizardry section across the store. Rose wondered whether it was true he had eyes in the back of his head, or if the older man had simply cast a permanent mess-alarm charm on the shop. She glanced down at the large vanilla cone in her hand: it was neatly licked and nibbled almost all the way down to the cone, not a drop spilled anywhere, not even a trickle melting down the sides of the cone. Rose always ate very neatly, not like Hugo, who always got ice cream all over his face, or Albus, who was absent-minded enough to forget about the ice cream in the first place and let it melt all over his hand. She was nearly done with her ice cream, but it would be a shame throw it away. Rose hadn't even gotten to the secret puddle of chocolate that the ice-cream shop-girl always hid at the bottom of the cone for her.

The proprietor was making his way over to her, probably intent on throwing her out. Decisive action was needed. (Rose liked that phrase. She'd read it in a Prophet article last week.) She put down the book she'd been perusing and turned to face the proprietor with a practiced smile on her face. It was slightly different than the one she reserved for Daddy, but in this case it had the same affect.

Rose looked up at the proprietor contritely. His stern look softened. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hazzlebound. I forgot you didn't like food in here. I just wanted to wait here until I can go get my wand. Uncle Harry's at Ollivander's with my cousin right now and we're going afterwards because Mum doesn't like people from the Prophet taking pictures of me."

The change in Mr. Hazzlebound's demeanor was immediate and drastic. He leaned closer to Rose and looked her up and down, then smiled. "You're one of the Weasely kids, then? You've got the hair, but not the freckles."

"Yes, sir." Only one of the Weasely kids? She was Rose Weasely. Her picture was in the paper enough; he ought to recognize her.

"Where's your mother now?"

"Gringotts. My little brother went with her and Dad 'cause he likes riding the vault-carts." Rose's ice cream was melting slightly; she hoped Mr. Hazzlebound made up his mind soon to either let her stay or kick her out, so it wouldn't melt. She added, "But  _I_ like books, so Mum let me come here."

The proprietor glanced at the books on the table next to her. Then he looked at her ice cream. Finally he glanced around the store, eagle eye alighting on each patron.

"Well, eat that up before it gets all over everything. And don't you dare put sticky fingers on any of those books," he said gruffly.

Rose smiled broadly. "Oh no, I won't, sir. Thank you."

Rose attacked the rest of the ice cream cone as Mr. Hazzlebound stalked away through the crowded shelves. Then, carefully licking her fingers clean, she returned to the book she'd been courting.

Mum always called it that. She said that when you looked at a book on the shelf, it was like meeting a new person. You shouldn't judge by the cover, but instead take the time to read the title. Then, if it sounded interesting, you could read the summary page, to see if you wanted to be friends. If you went even further—if you read the first page—then that was like a first date, and if you read all the way to the end—even if it was hard to read and didn't have any pictures—then you almost always fell in love and learned something from it. Most books were good books, Mum said, and most people were good people.

Right now, Rose was courting  _Potions, Alchemy and Chemistry_  by Kelly Feizel. It was one of her school books, and Rose was having serious doubts about her romantic future with it. The book had looked interesting on the shelf; it was the shortest volume on her book list, and bound in plain green leather. The title was intriguing, too. Mum had told her that chemistry was a muggle science, and Rose thought it was strange to for it to be included in a magical textbook. The summary page said that the author was the youngest potions' master alive, and the inventor of anti-magic. Rose didn't know much about anti-magic other than that it was really expensive. Uncle Fred was always saying he could do wonders with it if the ministry would only let him have a license to make it.

The first page of the book didn't talk about potions at all, instead talking about things called atoms, and building blocks:

… _Wizards use magic to bring order to the universe. Muggles search for order inherent in the universe. By melding the two approaches, we can understand—and create—more than ever before. Wizards can change atoms of chlorine to atoms of oxygen, a feat unthinkable to Muggles, but we in the magical world do not have the slightest conception of what the building blocks of magic are. Apply magic to science, and you can break any rule of physics you want. Apply science to magic, and you can rewrite the rules…_

Flipping forward, Rose didn't even see any potions recipes. What kind of text book was this?

… _Chapter Three—Crash Chemistry 101…_

… _Chapter Eleven—Re-writing the Rules: Anti-magic…_

Eventually Rose put down the book in favor of  _A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration._  She wondered when she would learn enough to turn Hugo into a kneazle. A kneazle would be much preferable to a little brother.

"Rosie? Where are you, little pig?"

Rose perked up at the sound of her father's voice. He sounded like he was just a few aisles over. Rose was sitting in a giant alligator-skin armchair, secluded in a corner alcove and therefore invisible to the rest of the store, her school books (and a few others for light reading) piled next to her. She felt the Weasely spirit take hold of her, and her eyes twinkled as she quietly closed her book and crept out into the aisles. Very soon she was behind her father, sneaking up on him. She was just about to leap forward and scare him when he suddenly whirled around. He bellowed like a griffin and snatched her up into his arms.

Rose shrieked in fright and then in laughter. He had tricked her, alright. That meant the score was 5 to 3. He was going to win this week. Rose giggled madly and hugged him. The ruckus earned a stern "Hush!" from the nearest store attendant. Daddy rolled his eyes at the attendant for Rose's benefit and set her down on the floor again.

"Hello, little pig. What have you been doing?"

Rose grabbed his hand and gave him a stern look. "Daddy, you can't call me that anymore, remember? I'm eleven years old."

"Oh, okay. What should I call you then? Ickle-Rosie-kins?"

Rose wrinkled her nose. Dads were so silly. Everyone she knew agreed with her: Albus, Victoire, Molly, Fred… Still, little pig was better than Ickle-Rosie. At least little pig stood for something—how she'd zipped around the house like a little owl when she was a toddler. Just like Daddy's old school owl. "Rose. My name is Rose, Daddy."

"Alright then. Where are your school books? If I know you they're already all picked out."

Rose led him to her alcove and then waited impatiently as he checked her books out with Mr. Hazzlebound. "Are we going to get my wand, now? Are we gonna go?"

Her father smiled and made small talk about how excited she was with the proprietor, who made a joke (she hoped it was a joke) about having to fight off a bogart in order to qualify for a wand. They both talked as if she wasn't there, except for once when Mr. Hazzlebound flashed her a smile. Dads could also be very annoying, along with every other grown-up.

"Come on! Come on!" Rose tugged at her father's hand as they weaved through Diagon Alley's crowded streets to pick up her mother at the Leaky Cauldron. He was very slow. Usually Rose was all eyes while in Diagon Alley, lingering over every shop and trinket, but toady she had no patience for shiny things. She wanted something made of plain dull wood. Magical wood. She hoped Mum would be nice and tell her whether the shopkeeper had been joking about the boggart. Most of the time Mom was very serious and helpful, but you never knew. Mom did tend to side with Dad, even when he was joking. Rose could not get to the Leaky Cauldron fast enough.

Unfortunately, their cousins were also waiting at the Leaky Cauldron, which meant that a horde of reporters blocked their way to the entrance. Rose strained to see over them as her father tugged her to halt. She considered asking for a lift up, but she was much too old for that now.

"Mr. Potter! Mr. Potter!"

"—who is this with you—"

"Are you worried about—"

"Mr. Potter—"

"—been undercover this past month?"

"Is it true that—"

"—attacks at the Prophet—"

No doubt Albus was somewhere within the crowd, Rose thought. Al was her best cousin. They had sworn over a fairy ring the garden when they were eight that they would always be best friends. Rose knew everything about Al and Al knew everything about her. They always agreed on things—well, except for a few things, like reporters. Albus hated reporters. Rose hoped these ones didn't convince him to say anything stupid; Al got tongue-tied occasionally. He needed her help, Rose decided, but how to get to him?

The reporters were like a mass of crazy grass, the kind that infested your yard and ate your pets. Mum had had to clean it out of the back yard twice. Come to think of it, she had had to clean reporters out of the back yard once or twice, too. The latter had been far more entertaining.

No, there would be no sneaking through the reporters. That left just one option. Rose glanced up at her father; his eyes were elsewhere. Closing her eyes, she pictured the inside of the Leaky Cauldron. Where was there most likely to be a clear spot? On top the bar, probably. Nobody would stand there. It wasn't too far; she could manage it. Okay… one, two, three, go! She disappeared with a crack.

She knocked over two bottles of fire-whiskey and an old witch's lemonade, and cracked her head against a ceiling that was shorter than she thought it was, but otherwise the apparition went fine. From her vantage point, Rose spotted the Potter family, most importantly Albus, stuck within the crowd of media-mongers. Her apparition changed that, though: every reporter in the room froze, attention riveted on her. Within seconds all pictures and questions were being directed at her, and Rose was able to glimpse through the flashing cameras her cousins escaping upstairs into the private lounge the family rented constantly. All except Uncle Harry—he came to rescue her. Uncle Harry was like that.

Rose beamed for the pictures, waving from her perch on top of the bar, until her uncle breached the crowd. Then she jumped down and greeted him with a hug.

"I'm going to kill James." She heard him growl, and then they both apparated onto the stairwell.

"Thanks Uncle Harry," she said cheerfully. The whole thing had been kind of exhilarating.

Uncle Harry, however, was one of few people her smiles did not disarm. He crossed his arms and looked down at her. "Where's your father?"

"Outside."

"Does he know where you are?"

Rose shook her head.

Her uncle sighed, brushing a hand through his hair. "Rose, he's probably worried sick about you, don't you realize that? You could've splinched yourself. You could've wound up anywhere. There's a reason you have to have a license to apparate."

She did it well enough, didn't she? She was careful. She was certainly more careful than James, who'd taught her to apparate after learning it from Teddy. "James does it."

"James gets grounded every time he does. And he's going to get his broom confiscated for teaching it to you."

Ooh, James would kill her. Rose squirmed slightly. He looked past her uncle at the door to the lounge. "He's not in there, is he?"

"No, but your mother is. And guess who's going to go tell her what you just did?"

Oh, Merlin. Mum would not be happy. "Do you  _have_  to?"

Uncle Harry stepped away from the door and pushed her towards it. " _You_  have to. I'm going to go get your dad."

Rose shied away from the door. She ran through several explanations in her head, but there was no way she could make this look like someone else's fault. Mum would  _not_  be happy.

* * *

Scorpius Malfoy could not stand reporters. There always seemed to be one or two lurking around when he went out, like flightless vultures, with pecking questions and sly camera flashes. He wished Dad would tell them to go away. Instead, his father just clenched his hand tightly and shuffled through the crowded ministry plaza, trying to act naturally, to be inconspicuous. Of course, that was impossible.

The other witches and wizards who were flooing into the ministry's public fireplaces gave both Scorpius and his father a wide berth, choosing every line but theirs at the security check-in. The security-wizard glanced around in surprise at his suddenly decongested line, but when his eyes finally alighted on the orange band on the elder Malfoy's left sleeve he raised an eyebrow. Scorpius frowned. Put that eyebrow back where it belongs, he thought mutinously.

"Papers," said the wizard.

"Right here," Dad said. He handed over a small crisp parchment. The wizard tapped it with his wand; it glowed green.

"Wand, please."

The sight of his father handing over his wand momentarily distracted Scorpius. They were going to get  _his_  wand today. That's why they were out of the house at all. Usually they had everything flooed or owled in, but of all of Scorpius's school supplies, the wand just had to be bought in person, on site. What would it be like, to have his own wand finally? To be able to cast spells? To hex the stupid reporters who hung around the manor gates, rather than just set the moat monster on them?

"Stand here, please. Hands up."

Scorpius gave the security wizard a sour look as his father raised his hands to his head and let the other man search him. After a few passes with his wand, the wizard let him stand down. Scorpius fidgeted impatiently as Dad collected his cloak and wand again. Finally, he was ready to go.

The security wizard has other ideas, however. "Wait a minute, boy. You're next."

Scorpius looked up at the wizard in distaste. Did he really want to search him? Scorpius looked around. Nobody else was being held up in this manner. Just him. Him and his father, who would never ever do anything about it.

The wizard gestured for Scorpius to stand like his father had, but Scorpius deliberately misinterpreted the gesture and flinched away. "Don't touch me!" He let his voice crawl a little higher than normal, determined to make a scene. Would a tantrum be enough for the guard to let him through? Probably, but would it be worth attracting the attention of the two reporters lingering at the fountain? He could picture the Prophet headline now: "Spoiled Malfoy Heir Throws Tantrum."

"Come on, now. It doesn't hurt."

"I don't want to." Scorpius glanced at his father instinctively for support. Amazingly, he seemed to notice the entreaty and stepped forward.

"He's a child. What could he possibly be hiding?"

The security wizard sneered. "He's  _your_  child, Mr. Malfoy."

"He has rights!"

Scorpius nearly jumped at this outburst. He'd never heard his father raise his voice to a stranger; though he had still been quiet enough not to attract the attention of the nearest bystanders, his voice was quite full of venom. Scorpius perked up hopefully.

The security wizard was momentarily stunned, also, but made a quick recovery. "I am in charge of this security check-in,and the only way you two are getting through it is by submitting to search, or being escorted by aurors."

Just as quickly as it had surfaced, his father's anger subsided. His voice returned to its polite murmur. "Alright. Fine."

"Dad!"

His father put a hand on each shoulder and squeezed. "Scorpius, please."

Scorpius could not believe this. Actually, he  _could_  believe it, and that was the problem. It was entirely believable because it happened all time. He pursed his lips and glared at his father. "Mom wouldn't make me," he said.

After that elicited the expected flinch from his father, Scorpius turned to the security wizard and raised his hands. "I hope your next chocolate frog card gives you warts, you fat troll."

"Scorpius," warned his father sharply.

Scorpius ignored him as the security wizard passed his wand twice in front of Scorpius's body and the waved them on with a final sneer. He ignored his father all the way out of the plaza into Diagon Alley. He occupied himself with glowering at passerbys, and noticed that for once, there were no reporters anywhere. They must all be hounding some other poor sod, he thought.

Diagon Alley was quite nice, actually. There was a racing broom in one shop window, and Scorpius only remembered that he was supposed to be sulking when he caught his father's reflection smiling at him in the window as he ogled it. Scorpius quickly frowned. He forgot to sulk several times as they made their way through Diagon Alley, and by the time they turned onto Ollivander's street he didn't care if anybody saw him smile. He was getting his  _wand_. He wouldn't be a little kid anymore. He would be a wizard, with a wand, and he wouldn't have to tolerate anyone who was mean or stupid or nosy, no matter how grown up they were.

 


	4. The Snake

Albus was fairly sure it was James' fault. It usually was, after all, although Freddy might have been involved this time. He idly ran through the various things he'd eaten that day, wondering which might have been laced with Wheezes. Would James' have put it in the cereal? Or the bags of Dragon Puffs they'd snacked on while Mum was in Gringotts? He was pretty sure it couldn't have been the chocolate frog card; he'd bought that with his own pocket money and ate it while James flirted with a girl in the Quidditch depot down the street. It may have occurred while he and James stopped in Weasely's Wizard Wheezes to see Uncle George. Freddy had been there, distracting him… anything could've happened.

Well, however it had happened, Albus was sure he'd been cursed. Maybe it was Freddy, maybe it was James, maybe it was the universe in general. All that Albus knew as that he should not be standing in the middle of Faithful Familiars Pet Shop, having a staring contest with a six foot snake.

"You blinked," Albus said accusingly.

The snake cocked its head inside the cage, and the precise movement gave Albus the impression he'd been scoffed at.

"I'm serious," Albus continued, almost pleading. "I win. You lose. You have to stay here."

This time the snake opened its mouth slightly and hissed, edging closer to the mesh of its cage, closer to Albus.

"Look, you're beautiful, and I'm sure you'd make a very… interesting …pet for somebody, but not for me, okay? I'm going to be a Gryffindor in a month. Have you ever heard of a Gryffindor with a pet snake? Besides, they only let you have owls Hogwarts. Well, owls and cats and… I can't remember the other one, but trust me, it's not snakes. I just can't buy you."

The snake dropped its head down and peered up at Albus. It looked pitiful. As if that weren't enough, it flicked its tail right and left, as if to draw attention to its miserable surroundings.

"Oh, come off it. I'm sure they feed you and everything."

The snake continued to stare at him.

"No. I'm not buying you."

Its tail twitched.

"No."

The snake drew itself up to Albus's eye level again and looked at him sternly. It reminded him of how Lily looked just before she finally got fed up with James' pranks and did something nasty, like put flobberworms in his bed. A moment later, he came to the conclusion that it was the exact same look. He didn't know how the snake did it, but every other animal in the shop suddenly went crazy. Owls shrieked and flapped madly against their cages; cats yowled with arched backs and twitching claws; other things, from the fuzzy to the slimy, hissed, mewled, cackled and screeched, all rattled their cages frantically.

Albus clapped his hands over his ears. "Stop it! Stop!" The snake continued to stare at him; Albus shut his eyes. "Stop it!"

Suddenly another voice joined his. "Oy! Cut it out! You hear?"

Albus opened his eyes to see the shop girl rapping the top and side of the snake's cage sharply with her wand. She must have returned from the back to see what the ruckus was about.

"Cut it out, Sal!"

The snake hissed at her and coiled up, but the animals in the other cages began to calm down. The shop girl stopped her rattling and looked up at Albus. "Told you he was a weird one."

She had, when Albus had wandered into the shop. He'd been bored with following Mum and Dad around for shopping, and James had snuck off to explore Nocturn Alley with Dom and Fred, leaving Al with nothing to do but dodge reporters. So he had found himself wandering into Faithful Familiars, perhaps with an idea of looking at kneazle kittens for Lily, who'd been hinting strongly that she wanted one for her birthday in October. Instead his gaze had been arrested by the snake.

It was gorgeous: sleek and sinuous, with eyes and scales like bright green jewels. The way it moved was hypnotizing. It had seemed to notice Al's presence instantly, and after an introduction and a warning from the busy shop girl, he had started a conversation of sorts with it. It wasn't as if, in the beginning, Al thought it could actually understand him. Albus talked to everything: owls, pictures, toys, food (when his mother cooked, the resulting meal was usually easier to talk to than to digest)… Usually, he didn't receive an answer back—and to be fair the snake hadn't exactly spoken. It just seemed to understand, and to make Al understand. It was unnerving and intriguing, and just enough of the latter to outweigh the former. But Al put his foot down when the snake gestured coyly at the price tag attached to its cage.

It was staring at him reproachfully now, and giving the shop girl the occasional poisonous glare. She replied with one of her own. To Albus, she said, "I'll never get rid of this one."

"Why not?"

"Well, snakes aren't exactly in demand right now, are they? They got a bad rap on account of their connection with You Know Who."

Albus knew who. His father, who was frustratingly tight-lipped about everything concerning the Second Wizarding War, was nevertheless adamant about one detail: his family would call Voldemort by his own name. It didn't do to be afraid of ghosts, Dad said. He met the snake's uncanny eyes again.

"Say," said the shop girl, "You interested in taking him? You look like you fancy him a little."

Albus was so shocked that he almost nodded, but he quickly corrected himself. "Oh no. I can't take him. I… I'm going to be in Gryffindor."

The girl nodded. "Ahh, going to school are we? Good for you. Wish I could have gone to Hogwarts."

Albus cocked his head. He'd never met anyone who hadn't gone to Hogwarts, or wasn't expected to. "Why didn't you go?"

The shop girl shrugged, as if it were obvious. "I haven't got the right amount of power, you know? So I got an apprenticeship with an Ecology Master and now I'm qualified to take care of pests like Sal."

Albus was even more confused. Was she a squib? She couldn't be; she'd used her wand several times since he'd been in the store. "What do you mean? Are you… a squib?"

The shop girl looked up from the bag of Owl Munchies she'd been trying to open. "Heavens no, dear. I just ain't a full-level wizard like you, that's all." The bag burst open, and she deftly summoned a few spilled treats back into it. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to take Sal off my hands?"

Albus didn't answer, still intrigued by the lady's mysterious lack of schooling. Her explanation had not helped him much. A tapping noise from the snake's cage brought him back to the present issue. The snake was looking expectantly at him, tail flicking back and forth anxiously.

The shop girl pressed on. "I haven't seen him take to anyone like he has with you. You might be the only person he's ever liked. I know he's tried to take a few of my fingers—more than once—and he tolerates me more than most."

Albus looked at the price tag: 12 sickles, a steal. She was practically giving the snake away. Albus had that much on him… Wait—why was he considering this? Buying a snake—any pet, really—without permission would get him grounded. Maybe his parents wouldn't let him go to Hogwarts. James would be insufferable about it, too. A snake for the Slytherin boy, he would say. What if Al did get sorted into Slytherin?

"Be a shame to leave him in a cage the rest of his life," the shop girl said.

Albus sighed. He was cursed. Fred and James must have slipped him a stupid-potion. He dug out his little pouch, comfortably full of allowance money. The shop-girl cooed with triumph and gratitude; his silver sickles disappeared into the cashbox as fast as he could count them.

"Can I, uh, pick him up this afternoon? I have to meet my dad and go get my wand."

"Of course, honey. I'll have Sal all ready for you."

The snake watched him all the way out of the store.

Al didn't exactly regret buying the snake. He had to admit he found it slightly fascinating. Nevertheless, his feet weighed about a million pounds as he trudged through Diagon Alley. He didn't mention anything at all to James when he found his brother chatting up a girl who looked much older than him in the quidditch depot. He would have to say something to his parents, though. They were meeting Al and James at Weasely's Wizard Wheezes, the family's favorite location in Diagon Alley—for more than the obvious reason. The store and street surrounding had been spelled to repel the press.

The press was the bane of Albus's existence. The Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly, Who? and even the Quibbler all felt compelled to print something about the Weasely-Potter clan in every issue. Everywhere Albus went, there were always questions—about his father's work, his brother's shenanigans, his cousins' private lives. They all wanted the scoop, if not from Harry Potter himself then at least from Harry Potter's son. No one ever asked questions about him—but Al wouldn't answer even if they did.

He trailed behind his older brother and cousin as they entered Weasely's Wizard Wheezes. Al may not have been the troublemaker James was, but the joke shop was any child's dream come true. Fanged Frisbees and fake wands, various candies made to taste like inedible things and various inedible things made to look like candy, Skiving Snack boxes and comic books disguised as common textbooks—it was beautifully chaotic.

He didn't get to browse any more thoroughly, today, however. Their parents were waiting in the back room, talking in that urgent boring tone adults used to talk about urgent boring things. Mum greeted both of them with a kiss and then was distracted by Lily attempting to pick Uncle George's pocket and steal his wand. Lily was crazy like that—the Prophet had printed several stories speculating a career of juvenile delinquency ahead of her. Albus thought it was all tripe. Lily was very sweet and kind, despite being a little sister; it just didn't do to arouse her anger or her stubbornness.

Albus tuned out his sister's whine—"But I want to get a wand today, too!"—and turned to his father, who winked at him.

"Ready, kiddo?"

Albus grinned, bobbing his head in eager agreement. The snake could wait until later, he decided. After all, it was not every day a boy got a wand. If he got himself grounded before going to Ollivander's he might not get it at all today. "Let's go, Dad. Let's go."

Dad grinned widely, as well. He turned to Mum. "I'm taking Al, love. I'll meet you at the Leaky Cauldron. The usual room, right?"

Mum shook her head with exasperation. "No, it's the big room. I told you this morning. Ron and Hermione are coming, and George wants to stop by during lunch hour."

Dad nodded. "Oh yeah."

"And you're not going straight to Ollivander's. You're going to the Leaky to pick up your cousin, remember? You told me that you could deal with the bill for the room while you're there."

Dad looked surprised. "Oh yeah! Poor Dudley. I would have just left him there."

Mum smiled and rolled her eyes, like she did whenever James or Albus complained that Lily was picking on them. The two brothers may not have agreed on everything, but both James and Albus supported each other against their clever and tyrannical younger sister. Mum never seemed to quite believe them, and she didn't seem to quite believe Dad now when he said he'd forgotten. "And you're the savior of the wizarding world? God help us."

Dad smirked back at her, and, leaning over, kissed her cheek. Albus wrinkled his nose. "Good thing you're the savoir of my world," whispered his father.

Albus heard James making exaggerated gagging noises while Lily shrieked. This was quite enough. "Dad, can we go now? Can we go now, please!"

Finally, they left. They walked straight out the front door of the shop and faced the reporters milling at the furthermost edge of the anti-press wards. Al watched as his father considered them. "You want to apparate?" he asked Al.

Al shook his head. This was the one thing reporters were good for; he wasn't going to pass up the opportunity. "Let's use the cloak."

"You're getting kind of big to fit under the cloak with me, kiddo," said Dad.

Albus huffed. "Then all the more reason to use it while I still fit, right? I'll be really good."

Dad pretended to consider. "Clever argument. And a bribe, too. You're a regular politician. I don't know what would scare me more: James growing up to be Minister of Magic or you."

Albus rolled his eyes. His father had been inexplicably amused when a younger Albus had announced that breakfast that, when he was Minister of Magic, he would exile all the girls. (He had just survived his first day in primary school, the girls had not impressed him. Nor were they, apparently, impressed by him.) No sooner than Al had finished, James added his own two cents: "Well I would keep the girls, and exile all the other boys." Mum and Dad had laughed forever.

Finally, Dad caved in, and retrieved several things from his bag. "Ready?"

Al rushed to his father's side, ready to slip under his father's invisibility cloak the minute Dad released a small tin of Peruvian Instant Darkness powder. The invisibility cloak was perhaps the coolest single object in the whole world, and it was coveted worshipfully by both Albus and James. It never seemed to leave Dad's side, though, and neither of them had ever gotten hold of it unsupervised. Dad's excuse was always that he needed it for work, and so the boys never got to use it except for press-dodging.

They walked, casually, towards the line of reporters. Albus trembled with excitement at the trick they were going to pull. A soon as they were close enough to actually distinguish one reporter's question from another, Albus saw his dad toss the tin to the cobblestones and hit it with a breaking spell. It was the last thing he saw, since immediately the powder exploded outwards and enveloped the whole crowd in complete darkness. Albus clutched tightly to his father as a predictable chaos broke out; he felt the cloak slide over him and did his best to match his father's long strides as they strode through the crowd. Nobody bumped into them because of the repulsion charms Dad kept casting. Eventually, they broke free of the cloud of instant darkness and Albus peered with great satisfaction at the busy street around them. Everyone was oblivious to their presence.

A few blocks away from the Leaky Cauldron, Dad led them into a secluded alley where he put away the cloak. Then they went to pick up Dad's cousins.

Dad's cousins were a strange lot, Albus thought. They were muggles, which made them strange in the first place, but they were even stranger than the ones Al had met in primary school. Dad seemed to like them quite a lot, but Al wasn't sure they liked Dad back, or any of the rest of the family. It wasn't as if they were mean, or rude. It was just something different about them, something Al couldn't figure out. It wasn't as if they saw each other enough for Albus to figure it out, anyway. Al had not seen his cousin Vincent since before primary school, when they'd argued about whether cars or broomsticks were better. Al hadn't known what a car was, then, and he hadn't known that he couldn't talk to Vincent about broomsticks because Vincent was a muggle.

Except that now, according to Dad, Vincent was not a muggle. Al wondered if that would make him less strange or more. He was still wondering when he and Dad finally met them in the Leaky Cauldron and they all got reintroduced again. There was Uncle Dudley, who smiled at him warmly but shook his hand rather hesitantly. Uncle Dudley was the muggle prime minister, and a very important man. Aunt Lucy was not hesitant at all, but gave him and his father both hugs. Al did not pay much attention to them, though. Adults were pretty indecipherable most of the time. He focused his attention on Vincent. His cousin was huge and dumb-looking, like the beaters for the Swedish Quidditch team. He was Albus's own age, Al knew, but he looked like he might be thirteen or so. He didn't do anything but stand still and watch everyone, giving Albus a nod when the smaller boy said hi.

Eventually Dad lead them all out of the Leaky and into Diagon Alley. The Dursely's were very impressed, it seemed. Uncle Dudley walked very stiffly, like an important man was supposed to, and seemed to be trying to watch everything at once. Al noticed that Vincent acted the same way. On the other hand, Aunt Lucy kept asking questions and pointing out every little floating trinket or magical display in the shop windows. Albus was very alarmed when they walked past Faithful Familiars and Aunt Lucy waved at the shop girl—he ducked behind his cousin's larger frame and walked with him, hoping not to be recognized. The incident reminded him that he had yet to tell his father that he had bought a snake. What had he been thinking? Dad would think it was terrible of him, something he expected of James, but never from Albus. Al wished he knew how to explain why he couldn't have left the snake there. He had a feeling it was not the kind of thing other people understood.

It was no good; Al couldn't even think of telling his father when he was so cheerful: Dad never once stopped talking to Uncle Dudley and Aunt Lucy. And Al definitely didn't want to get in trouble in front of his cousin.

Ollivander's wand shop was brilliant. It was the most beautiful thing Al had ever seen, even though Al did not retain a single detail about what it looked like. All that mattered was that his wand was inside. Al hoped that Dad let him go before Vincent. He thought he might explode in anticipation.

Unfortunately, there was someone ahead of them both: a tall, very blond man and an equally blond son. The father was speaking with an incredibly frail old man who had to be Ollivander, and the boy stood a distance apart, scowling. Al couldn't tell quite what he was scowling at, perhaps it was nothing in particular. A young wizard with the air of a harried assistant hovered at Ollivander's side. Al heard his father stop talking abruptly as they entered the shop; then he continued, but more quietly than before. It was odd; Al glanced between the occupants of the shop and his father, looking for a clue to the change. The stranger didn't seem familiar at all.

Then Al noticed Vincent doing the exact same thing. The other boy was scrutinizing Al's father as if he were a hidden picture in the moving coloring books Al had enjoyed as a preschooler. A surge of protectiveness seized Al—what was his cousin staring for? Dad could do whatever he liked. He was a very important person, a hero. Even more important than the muggle prime minister.

As if aware of being watched, Vincent caught his eye. Al look decisively away, and focused his attention on Ollivander, who was glaring coldly at the blond man. Neither had apparently noticed their audience.

"You, of all people, can afford to go the continent for a wand. Don't bother me here," said Ollivander.

The blond struggled with his words. "You—you can't—I know why you're doing this."

Ollivander interrupted him: "Then perhaps you'll have the decency to leave."

"Don't take it out on the child."

"I'll do whatever I like to in my own shop, Mr. Malfoy."

Ollivander didn't want to sell this man a wand, realized Albus. How odd. Why wouldn't you sell something if someone had the money to buy it from you? Unless it was like a port key or anti-magic, where you had to get a permit to buy it. Alarmed by this conclusion—he certainly didn't have a permit—Albus tugged at his father's cloak, interrupting his conversation with Uncle Dudley.

"Dad," he asked softly, "Do you have a permit for my wand?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Do you have to have a permit to buy a wand? Like a port key?"

"No, no. Anyone can buy a wand, Al."

"Then why doesn't Mr. Ollivander let him buy one?" asked Albus, pointing at the blond man.

His father glanced at the two men. His face grew stormy as he apparently listened to their conversation for the first time. He murmured angrily, and Al was glad it didn't seem to be directed at him. "No, no, no. This not what we fought for."

Dad walked right up to the two men. Albus remained with his cousins, but watched carefully, and saw the little blond boy gape at his approach. Once again, Al was annoyed by people's propensity to stare at his father. Vincent, at least, had an excuse: he was muggle, and none too bright if Albus was any judge, so maybe he didn't know it was rude to stare. This sullen boy, however, ought to know better. Al gave him a venomous look, which the boy, noticing it, returned with an outstanding glare.

"Good morning, Ollivander, Malfoy," said his father. "Is there a problem?"

From the look the two men were giving him, Albus thought it was plain there was a problem. He also thought it plain that he would be waiting to get his wand until the adults had done arguing. Didn't grown-ups realize that there were more important things than talking? Like getting a kid his first wand? Al sighed at their foolishness and went to sit down on the stairway landing. To his surprise, he was shortly joined by the blond boy. Al inspected him from the corner of his eye, not wanting to be seen staring. He had manners at any rate.

The boy sat primly, as far away from Al on the stairway as he could get, and he didn't look at Al either. He was still sitting there, however, and Al figured he had come to the same conclusion about the adults in the room as Al had. Perhaps he was trying to be friendly, or at least looking for someone to commiserate with. Al obliged him: "They're being grown-ups."

The blond boy glanced at him. "I'm not sitting here because I want you to talk to me. I just wanted to sit here."

His tone was very cold, and Al didn't say anything back. Eventually, the boy spoke again.

"…but you're right. They're being incredibly obtuse."

"What's obtuse mean?" Albus asked.

The blond boy laughed at him.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's notes:
> 
> I am American, and apologize for any anachronisms (ie. my portrayal of the position of prime minister, etc.) I hope to find a happy medium between capturing the same local flavor as the books and not having to do research. Please let me know if I am embarrassing myself.
> 
> This story will focus on the next generation, with a few guest-star adults, as above.


End file.
